The Coming Storm

by Tracie Peterson

  Dianne remembered Dr. Bufford and his attitude about such matters. It hurt, but more than that it angered her deeply that such a thing should be true. Why did skin color matter so much?

  Weren’t people just people?

  “I’m sorry,” she began. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was wrong to try and impose something on you that you don’t want.”

  “What I want has never mattered much. I want good things for my people—for those I love.”

  He stepped within inches of Dianne, then stopped. His dark eyes searched her face. She saw the longing there, and it startled her. Was that desire intended for her, or was it merely the passion he felt for the injustice done his ancestors? She trembled.

  “Why aren’t you married yet?” His voice was a husky whisper. The words caught Dianne completely off guard. She didn’t have time to think up charming excuses, so she simply spoke the truth. “I don’t know.”

  Takes Many Horses smiled. “Did your man run off?”

  “In a sense,” she said with a shake of her head. “But not truly.

  He went back to Kansas to help his parents. Then he was working his way back here this summer on a wagon train. I haven’t heard from him since he reached Cheyenne. He thought he’d be here by September, but . . . well . . . he didn’t return.”

  “There are bad times on the plains. The Sioux are very unhappy with the railroad.”

  Dianne smiled. “How do you know about that?”

  “The Sioux or the railroad?” he asked in a teasing tone.

  “Both.”

  Takes Many Horses shrugged. “I’ve been down south hunting. I’ve talked to many people, both friend and foe. There is a great unhappiness in the tribes because of the railroad. The trains drive the buffalo off and sometimes even kill them. The trains are bringing in more white people every day. The Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe will fight to take it back. The Blackfoot will help them, if needed. They’ll all fight—if the sickness doesn’t kill them first.”

  Dianne could smell the strange collection of greases and oils he’d used on his body, in his hair. She could almost feel his breath upon her face. She felt her throat dry up and could barely speak the words, “What sickness?”

  “Smallpox is what Bram called it. The whites have given us blankets that carry the sickness. So many people are sick. Last January many died from the pox, and then the white soldiers came and killed many more up on the Bear River—whites call it the Marias.”

  Dianne remembered her brother’s confession of what had happened there. She had no desire to remember any of the details. She pushed aside the memory. “Sickness is everywhere.

  Still, I can’t imagine the soldiers purposefully giving the Indians smallpox. They would have to concern themselves with it spreading to the whites and even the forts where they live and work.”

  “They don’t concern themselves with anything that is helpful to the Blackfoot or any other tribe. Their way is to take what is not theirs, including the lives of those who interfere with their plans.”

  “I’m sure it must seem that way, but my brother Zane is a soldier. He only wants peace in the land.”

  “White man’s peace?”

  Dianne shrugged and shook her head. “Isn’t peace . . . simply peace? No matter the color?”

  Takes Many Horses chuckled softly. “You are very young and nai ve.”

  She didn’t want to take offense at his words, but they stung nevertheless. She fought to push aside her pride and took a deep breath.

  “I hope you always know you’re welcome here,” she began.

  “If you change your mind about where you want to live, you have a home here. Oh, and don’t sleep in the barn anymore.

  There is plenty of room in the house, even if it’s not finished or filled with furnishings. It will be warmer. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She edged past the man and headed for the door.

  “Wait,” he said softly.

  Dianne turned to find him watching her. “What?”

  Takes Many Horses went to her and reached out to touch a loose strand of hair. Dianne shivered. There was something so savage and refined about him all at the same time. His presence suggested a sense of danger but also afforded her peace.

  “You are a special woman. Strong and capable like the Blackfoot women.”

  Dianne had no idea where this conversation might lead them, but it made her uncomfortable.

  “But I honor the fact that you belong to another.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, uncertain why he should affect her at all when Cole was the only man she ever intended to marry.

  “You love him, don’t you?” His gaze bored into her, almost willing her to deny it.

  “I love him very much. Cole is my life—my hopes—my dreams.” She smiled tenderly, not wishing to hurt Takes Many Horses. “And,” she said, leaning just the tiniest bit forward, “he doesn’t mind that I have no idea how to tan a buffalo hide.” She grinned and turned to go.

  He chuckled as she walked away. Dianne’s smile faded as she headed to the house. She liked Koko’s brother and cherished their friendship. He was a man of honor just like Uncle Bram. Dianne worried that his time of freedom would not last long. Changes were coming—like a storm creeping down from the mountains, like an unseen force that would soon threaten them all. The coming storm would not be kind.

  The sun wasn’t yet up when Takes Many Horses mounted his horse and motioned his companions to head north. He tucked his rifle across his lap, knowing he’d miss the soft deerskin scabbard he’d left as a gift for Dianne. He wondered if she’d like the present or if she’d smile in memory of pulling the rifle on him at the river.

  He couldn’t help but smile himself as he thought of her fierce determination to be strong and undefeated by the land and its elements.

  “She should have been Blackfoot,” he murmured, turning his horse to join the others. “She should have been mine.”

  CHAPTER 15

  THE PENCIL STUB COLE HAD FOUND IN THE CABIN ALLOWED him to write out the last entry in his journal before succumbing to his hunger, sickness, and the cold. He had no fear of dying . . . only regrets. Regrets that he’d never see Dianne again—never marry her and raise a family. Regrets that he’d die alone in the wilderness and no one would even know to mourn his passing.

  It seemed so unfair, unjust. He’d managed to slip away from his captors only to die here in some long forgotten trapper’s respite.

  His last conscious thoughts were of how much time he’d wasted in bitterness and grief. I should never have taken so much time before proposing to Dianne. I should have married her quickly, and at least then we would have had that time together . . . those memories could comfort me now.

  When Cole next awoke, he was certain he’d be staring into the face of some heavenly being.Would St. Peter really greet him with the keys to heaven? He’d heard the pastor of his parents’ church speak of such matters. Or was it Paul who would come with the keys? He tried groggily to clear his mind and remember.

  An ancient woman sat beside him. Her skin was a leathery

  8 brown and her snow-white hair had thinned to a fine wisp of covering. She bathed his face with a cloth and spoke in low, soothing tones.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, Cole realized he’d been found once again by the Indians. He gazed about the tepee, wondering if there were others. Two women sat on the opposite side of the lodge, working to mash something in bowls. Perhaps they were preparing a meal, he thought groggily.

  “Where am I?” Cole braved the question, hoping one of the three might speak English.

  The old woman said something to the other two. One of the other women got to her feet and left the tepee. Perhaps she had gone for help—or at least a translator. She reminded Cole of Koko Vandyke. In fact, he was almost confident these women were Blackfoot. The younger two wore their coal-colored hair parted down the middle and tied off to each side with strips of rawhide. The old woman wore her hair loose,
almost as if there weren’t enough mass to bother with. The old woman’s dress was of coarse wool. It looked as though the color had once been red, but now with time and wear it looked more brown.

  The younger woman returned with a stately old man in tow.

  His silver-white hair suggested advancing years, but his face seemed hardly wrinkled at all. He appeared unimpressed with the old woman’s comments. He conversed for several moments, often grunting or making a gesture toward Cole or one of the others in the room. The conversation, good or bad, was obviously about him.

  “Do you speak English?” Cole asked, barely able to speak the words. His throat felt so very dry.

  The man eyed him for a moment, then said something to the old woman. She nodded and called out to the two women on the opposite side of the tepee.

  The old man left and one of the younger women quickly appeared with a bowl of steaming broth. The smell enticed Cole.

  He hadn’t eaten in days, maybe longer; he’d lost track of how long he’d been on the run.

  The old woman helped Cole to sit up just a bit, then offered him the bowl. She saw immediately that he was too weak to hold the bowl by himself, however, and helped him ease the dish to his mouth.

  Never had anything tasted so good. Cole felt the warm liquid trickle down his throat and pool in his stomach. The warmth spread throughout his body and with each sip, Cole imagined his strength returning. There is a gentleness about these people. They want to see me well, he told himself.

  But after a few drinks, he was completely exhausted and waved off any further nourishment or care. His energy gave way to the demand for sleep, and though Cole’s mind fought against it, his body had its way and he drifted into dreams.

  Cole’s recovery came in slow but steady improvements over the days that followed. The old woman seldom left his side, and she nursed him much differently than the Sioux woman had. This woman gently tended his wounds, bathed his body, and helped him to eat. This woman spoke to him, and while he understood very little of what she said, she often offered him a comforting pat on the arm or a smile.

  After two weeks, Cole felt more like his old self. He was able to sit up now for several hours a day, and by the end of the third week, he was able to walk around the camp a bit.

  He was confident now that the group was Blackfoot. He even managed to draw on memories of words he’d learned at the ranch and converse enough to understand that they were waiting for the hunting party to return before they headed north to better winter seclusion near the Sweet Grass Hills and the Canadian border.

  Cole watched the people work around the camp and admired their spirit. The children laughed and played, chasing after the dogs or each other. Sometimes they would come close to him and watch him. Once in a while one of the children would get brave and rush forward to touch Cole before jumping back to rejoin his companions. Cole imagined in their own way they were counting coup on him, a twist on an old Indian practice.

  Always the others were quite impressed and would laugh and pound the daring warrior on the back. Cole had to laugh at their antics. They were so pleased and proud of themselves.

  It was nearing the fourth week when heavy snows and cold made life in the camp less pleasant. Cole would still sit outside as much as possible, for the dank stench of the tepee was almost more than he could take at times. He’d learned that he was being cared for by the tribe’s holy woman and this tepee was her medicine lodge. If he understood correctly, she was a great healer— his own recovery was proof of that.

  The women who worked with her didn’t live in the lodge.

  They seemed to come and go, however, as directed by the old woman. Cole thought perhaps they were training for the position of medicine woman. No matter the reason they were in attendance, Cole knew they highly respected their ancient matron.

  As Cole’s mobility and clarity increased, he thought a lot about what would happen to him and where he would go from here. The Blackfoot didn’t seem to want him as prisoner, but neither did they show any desire to send him on his way. Cole was amazed at the care they’d offered. His wounds were pretty much healed, and only a dull ache remained in his chest to remind him that the scars he bore were from recent wounds.

  Still, with winter bearing down on them in merciless cold and snow, Cole wasn’t too inclined to ask for his freedom to leave.

  He had no idea which direction he’d have to head to find home, and he had no equipment to see him through the bone-chilling temperatures. Since they didn’t appear to be a threat to his life, Cole figured to wait things out a bit.

  It was on the second day of the desperate winter cold that Cole heard a great deal of whooping and hollering. The children were calling out, from what Cole could understand, that the warriors had returned with the winter provisions.

  He knelt at the entrance of the tepee, hoping to avoid being seen, praying that this change would not bode ill for him. He saw the women rush out to greet their men, to boast at the catches of at least two dozen elk and half as many buffalo. The village came to life with an attitude of celebration and victory.

  The old men came forward to greet the younger men, speaking in words too low for Cole to understand.

  Without warning, someone grabbed Cole by the heavy buffalo robe he was wearing and threw him to the ground. It was a young warrior, probably no older than sixteen or seventeen. The boy’s eyes shone black with hatred. He called to his friends, and before Cole could even cry for help, he found himself being beaten by the collection of young men.

  “Stop!” a voice called out in English. Then in Blackfoot the man added, “Kai yiwahts?” Cole recognized the words. They translated, “What troubles you?”

  One more kick was delivered to Cole’s ribs, causing him to moan. He feared he might throw up.

  The boys explained themselves in rapid-fire Blackfoot. Cole heard one declare him to be the enemy, but the man who’d spoken in English denied this.

  “Go to your mother’s house. You’ve disgraced yourself,” the man spoke in English, then repeated in Blackfoot. The warriors hung their heads and turned like punished puppies to head back to the center of camp.

  Cole struggled to stand up, pulling the robe with him. He wanted to thank the man, but just then several of the older men appeared. The one who always appeared to be in charge spoke to the younger English-speaking man. The older man produced Cole’s journal—something Cole had figured to be long lost or left behind at the cabin.

  The younger man eyed it curiously for several moments, then took it from the other man and opened it. He looked from the journal to Cole. “Does this belong to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Cole Selby.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed. He looked more fierce and his expression aged him. “Where do you come from?”

  “I live along the Madison River in the Montana Territory— on a ranch called the Diamond V.”

  The man nodded. “We’ll talk later.”

  Cole watched the Blackfoot warrior speak momentarily to the older men, then head off across the camp. The warrior had opened his journal again and appeared to be reading it. A feeling of dread came over Cole. What would happen now—now that the younger, more hot-headed men of the tribe had returned?

  Was it time to run again? And if so, which way should he go?

  The Blackfoot warrior turned the pages of the white man’s journal. He felt he knew the man from his entries. Cole Selby wrote of hard trails and long nights—of cattle stampedes and wagon train sicknesses. But mostly he wrote of how much he missed his woman. His Dianne.

  Takes Many Horses closed the journal after reading the final entry. Cole Selby was in a tepee not ten yards away. Dianne’s long-lost man. The man who stood between Takes Many Horses and the woman he loved.

  He gritted his teeth. How was it that fate had brought them together? When he’d returned from the hunt, he’d been told that an injured white man was in camp and that he was nee
ded to translate. He’d never dreamed it might be Cole Selby. Yet even as the man had stood after receiving an undeserved beating from the younger men of the camp, Takes Many Horses had known in his heart that this was Dianne’s man. He couldn’t explain why he knew, but he did.

  When he first looked into the eyes of the white man, he saw the man’s pain and suffering, but he also saw his determination and fighting spirit. This man had something more to live for than himself. His love and passion for Dianne had kept him alive.

  But now Takes Many Horses had this man’s life in his hands.

  If he went back to the council of elders and lied, telling them the journal revealed the man’s hatred for the Blackfoot and his plans for killing them, then no doubt Cole would be murdered.

  With Cole out of the way, Takes Many Horses would be free to return to the ranch, tell Dianne he’d learned the fate of her fiance,and then perhaps work himself into a position of being the comfort she needed to live beyond her loss.

  “He speaks of his love for Dianne as being second only to his love for God,” Takes Many Horses muttered. But how could he put her second to anyone or anything? She is beautiful and strong. She is worth everything and anything a man might own.

  “She would never be second to me,” Takes Many Horses said, casting the journal aside. The book fell to the side of his pallet and for several minutes, he could only stare at it.

  I have the power to make things the way I would have them be, he thought. I can remove Cole Selby out of her life forever. I have the ability to make this decision and free her once and for all.

  Takes Many Horses imagined the moment he would tell Dianne of Cole’s death. He could see her tears and sorrow. She would be silent, he thought. She would weep silently and be strong as he explained how Cole bravely died. Then she would take herself away and mourn for him in private.

  Then he thought of the life Dianne had offered him. I could live as a white man. I could live as my father did—as Bram did. They were good men, men to be honored. I could live as they did. I have the ability to change my entire future, he thought. The idea wasn’t entirely unappealing. After all, he clearly saw that the life of the Pikuni would soon be altered by the increasing interference of the white man. Men like Cole Selby.